Oh Mother, I can feel the soil falling over my head… Imagine Morrissey. Imagine his brain being blended into some squishy cocktail shit, shaken, stirred, and with a tiny pink umbrella to be hoisted upon the
disgusting gray mush that was formerly Morrissey and the resulting slush is what I have become.
I am at the front seat of a red Toyota 4x4 jeep epileptically navigating the white wasteland toward Mount Pinatubo, crags and ash and our quaking brains everywhere. Thirty minutes have passed by — or shook pass, or bumped onward — with a whole lot of shaking more to go. What the hell am I doing here?
I got suckered (no, that’s too strong a word — well, more like “gently enticed”) into joining a trek up the Pinatubo crater by a couple of friends. Mysteriously, I said yes, even if the great outdoors and I have never been friends. We’re like Bugs and Yosemite Sam. Or like a “Sa-‘yo-ang-Tondo-akin-ang-Cavite” type of thing. My strategy: I’ve kept the outdoors out by staying, er, indoor.
Saturdays were invented for leisurely sips of strong coffee and long cigarette puffs on the terrace while something from Stax, Motown or Blue Note slender out from the speakers (Mr. Shorter or Mr. Cooke); then a reach for the unfinished graphic novel (Preacher, volume five) or book (Palahniuk, almost always Palahniuk). I could stay animatedly suspended for hours on a Saturday until nighttime when it’s time to hit the bars (B-Side, definitely) or to paint.
But this particular weekend is different. I got home from work a couple of hours back, took a shower, grabbed whatever clothes that could pass for hiking gear (old trekking pants, good; Doc Martens boots, a good idea at the time; reading glasses, hell no!), and waited for the car to pick me up. My friends Alex Rivera and Karina Mantolino convinced me to join the Pinatubo trip. They are really trusted friends, always fun to be with: if they told me we were going to Hades or Hitler’s bunker, I’d ask them if I should bring an extra towel. We are joined by three friends of theirs: Cheryl Tiu (a journalist and rock drummer who loves rock formations) and a very amiable couple — Dino Cuaycong (a photo enthusiast) and Genie Javellana (upon seeing a monkey, she cutely chirps, “Monkeee! Monkeee!”).
They booked the Pinatubo Spa Town in Barangay Sta. Juliana in Capas, Tarlac. You go to Tarlac preferably in an ungodly hour (just around the time that I usually drink my fifth beer); have breakfast in a McDonald’s; then go to the spa facilities in Sta. Juliana; park your car; meet travel tour manager Jho Mallari; pay for the tour (P2,000++ that includes the 4x4 ride, entrance fee, boat ride stub, a choice of Filipino or Korean lunch upon returning from the crater, certificate, use of the shower facilities, etc. — I guess the rates vary depending upon the season); meet our Aeta guide (Edgar Razon who could out-walk Solomon Grundy) and have an appointment with the crater.
So there… Now I am here in a vehicle charging slowly over white sand. This is a mountainous town. Come Armageddon come. Wait a minute. I fail to notice something because of the constant banging of my head onto the vehicle window. The driver has been playing good, good songs from the get-go (and not some cod reggae usually associated with outdoor adventure).
I strike up a conversation with Allan the driver. The guy’s a skinhead and dark-skinned. He has a mustache and scruffy beard. He looks like one of those toughies who could down gin bulag in one sitting at the neighborhood sari-sari store, and beat up androgynous blokes like me who happen to gaily saunter by. You’d think he dug Aegis or Siakol and such, but I find myself listening to the driver talk about the relative merits of the Eraserheads and the Housemartins, about how Social Distortion’s Ring of Fire cover version is superior to Johnny Cash’s (arguable, of course), about Joe Strummer going the route of reggae after The Clash, about how enchanting the melodies of Joe Satriani are as compared to all-flash Yngwie (as proof he plays Satriani’s stirring Sleepwalk), about David Lee Roth versus Sammy Hagar as the ultimate Van Halen singer (showman Roth is king, but Love Walks In is heaven), and about how literate Morrissey’s confessional lyrics are.
I tell him Johnny Marr’s guitar parts in The Smiths are harder to learn than Angus Young’s in AC/DC. He answers that Morrissey lost some of his mojo when he went solo. Then Allan cues up a song in his iPhone (strung to a tinny speaker bought in Quiapo) — That Joke Isn’t Funny Anymore, This Charming Man, Well I Wonder, and There Is a Light That Never Goes Out, etc. — so that both of us can digest each curious lyrical nugget by the Moz, with an interesting recollection by the driver of events from his youth — such as a dorm-mate hanging outside the window singing The Boy With the Thorn in His Side, or the heated debates with equally macho drinking buddies as to what the “Caligula would’ve blushed” and “Now I know what Joan of Arc felt” lines mean. Which might have ended up in a fistfight or in a group hug.
The songs, the stories… It’s like riding shotgun with Nick Kent across the abyss.
The view to the top is shroud-white and spectacular. We arrive at the drop-off point at the foot of the volcano to the tune of Ring of Fire (right on cue), get down the bumpy jeep-meets-land-cruiser after more than an hour, and then start heading for the crater, which would take roughly two more hours. Our gang of six begins the ascent by walking downward a hill of loose rocks.
For people who do workouts (them, not me) it is relatively easy. As long as you wear the proper shoes (theirs, not mine). As long as you really love taking long, precarious, sun-scorched, thirst-inducing walks in the name of adventure (they, not I).
To help me cope I imagine myself to be Richard Long going on a circuitous route, tracing the outline of a challenging land art piece. Or Henry-David Thoreau, nature-tripping. But this doesn’t last long as soon as I start tripping on those rocky buggers. The soles of the DM’s are incredibly flexible and cling to various surfaces quite well. Good choice of footwear, initially. What I did not foresee is that once we get to the crater, we have to do the trek all over again — in reverse. So those boots would become heavier and heavier, vision becoming blearier and blearier… but I’m getting ahead of my story.
In the middle of the trek, one cannot help but admire the landscape altered by the Pinatubo eruption in 1991 — the craggy hills, the heap of sulfuric rocks, the riverbeds and sandy dunes of lahar-white. It’s nature’s own installation art. It was catastrophic for most people, especially for our indigenous brothers living in and around that area, but the Aetas have learned to cope with the devastation. We pass by the houses built by the Aetas at the village of Tatukan, design wonders in bamboo and wood. A mother doing her daily rituals. Kids playing by a biblical-looking tree. Life has to move on; it must. (That nugget is not from Keats or Yeats, or even Wilde — more like from Jurassic Park).
Ikeep pestering Edgar if we are anywhere near the crater. (Remember Donkey in Shrek?: “Are we there yet, are we there yet?”) He gives an estimate of how many minutes more to go. I don’t believe him. For locals it’s just like a walk to a nearby park. The most famous lie in hiking history: “Malapit na tayo.” And time is relative in these hills. I feel I’ve been walking for three days, while my co-trekkers are merrily skipping along, having dabbed themselves with sunblock and donned a pair of shades and hat. Photo-ops at every picturesque spot. Which is virtually everywhere. And Edgar hasn’t even shown signs of sweating. I am so out of my element: like Medusa in one of those bullshit shampoo commercials.
Here are some of the things I learned from my little adventure (albeit too late). Prepare for it by buying light yet sturdy footwear (Karina and Cheryl are cutely traipsing in a pair of Merrels) and trekking pants (STAR photographer Fernan Nebres recommends Sandugo). Bring granola bars (in a couple of minutes I would be begging for cookies) and enough water. Get some rest before the weekend trek (— no all-night beer binges or sleep deprivation before the trip). Pack light (don’t bring any books by Tolstoy, leave the Necronomicon at home). Yes, and do some research (read something substantial — like travel blogs; not this article).
After two or so hours, we finally get to a series of sheds. A bathroom on one side and a sign on another: “Welcome to Mount Pinatubo. Your trek starts here.” What part of “starts here” do I find puzzling? Everything! Ah, brilliant. Oh so what we’ve done by far is the Jimmy Page intro to Stairway to Heaven and now here comes Robert Plant to sing the verse?
And oh, the sign says if one could finish the remaining trek in 15 minutes that means he or she is “Young”; 18 minutes, “Middle Age”; and 20 minutes, “Senior Citizen.” It takes me longer than that so that means I am halfway between “Dead” and “Reincarnated.”
We finally reach the crater and it’s a sight to behold — really worth the walk. Mighty mountains surround the grayish waters (a boatman would tell us that it used to be “swimming-pool blue” before the tsunami hit Japan, a scary unsubstantiated fact). One sulfur-laden mountainside even resembles Mordor in illustrated Tolkien books. Legend has it that Pinatubo is a living stone (“Batung Mabye”) planted by an evil sorcerer. The folklore also includes a hero (always present says Joseph Campbell) and feuding deities (Namalyari versus Sinukuan in a title fight), with the eruption seen as a sign of the displeasure of the gods with man.
You walk the stone steps up to get a spellbinding view, and walk down to the sheds where the tourists are sunning themselves, swimming, going on boat rides, or taking catnaps.
A tip: Don’t be the guy (yes, you with the bandana) who brings a boom box up to Mount Pinatubo to blast out — holy shipyard! — Aerosmith. Steven Tyler ain’t cool these days. Besides, “Noise can cause soil erosion.” Hasn’t he read the sign?
Oh, here’s another tip. Book your boat ride in advance like what we did. Don’t be “chance passengers” — like the guys we would meet on the other side of the crater lake, where the “hot springs” supposedly are.
We put on our life vests, get on the boat, and watch our boatman paddle effortlessly across the lake. Genie has a National Geographic moment. She wonders whether there are mysterious creatures in these depths — like the Loch Ness Monster, perhaps. Hmm… Maybe mutant fish, I say to myself. Half-milkfish-half-sea-monkeee!
On the other side of the crater, we see the stragglers. They try in vain to negotiate a ride back on our boat because we’ve already booked it, so they need to wait longer. One guy quips that they have no choice but to remain on “Torture Island” for a while.
For others, this part of the crater is sunnier and offers a bit more solitude. For me, it’s just a bunch of rocks and things. Besides, I am already calculating if I have enough petrol to make the trek back to base. Which is a scarier prospect than encountering Genie’s Creature from the Crater Lake.
We are on the trek back, and I get the feeling I am getting my third (or fourth) wind.
Wait, I have spoken too soon. As soon as we get to the hillside leading up to the parked 4x4s, I feel it. Not just “it,” but “them.” Both my legs are cramping and my DM’s feel like boots of lead. I can’t muster enough strength to take another step. Everything is becoming a blur: the rocks, the trees and Edgar the man without sweat. I can see three of our friends already up the hill (two of them petite girls), sunning themselves by the vehicles, probably talking about how lovely their little march was. All in a day’s workout.
Karina and Alex have to lag behind to make sure I am okay. I am not. I am cursing the moment I said yes to the whole enterprise. I am releasing thought bubbles of asterisks, bombs and exclamation points. But I refuse to be carried uphill by Edgar like a sack of potatoes or like a heap of broken-boned Jim Carrey. I soldier on. Thinking of Thoreau. Of Richard Long. Of Bono climbing the one-tree hill. Of Caine in Kung Fu. Of not looking like a wuss in front of a girl whom I find really interesting (a prediction: nothing comes out of it and no one cares — tragic to wake up one day as Morrissey).
One small step for this man, one giant leap for geek-kind.
I finally make it — I, the weakest link. Ride the 4x4 with Allan again as the pilot. He plays Van Halen’s Jump, slightly ironic. To late lunch (delicious chicken and vegetable fare), a shower (the P10 shampoo would give my hair a tragic ’80s look — not The Smiths’, more like Kajagoogoo’s) and a Thai-Shiatsu massage combo (an additional P500, worth every damn peso; other options include the volcanic ash spa and a dip in the mud pool) and an early evening chat with friends, old and newfound ones. Hey, if it were Groundhog Day and I had to do everything all over again, I’d truly dig every second, even those blacking-out moments. It’s been — hate to admit it — fun.
On the way back to Manila, Alex opens his car stereo and Brick by Ben Folds Five starts playing.
Oh Mother, a brick is what I’ll be in bed tonight, drowning slowly in a dream.
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